Sunday, October 28, 2007


Its Smut weekend. And I haven't got anything written. My bad. Its not that I've been uninspired. In fact, I've been mightily inspired, and I will be again in a few days. But right now I have neither the time or the inclination to write it.

So I'll leave it up to you guys. Each reader gets to submit a bit. And you can do what you will with it. But don't hog the storyline, please keep your additions to a paragraph if you can.

I'll begin.


A storm was rolling in. Wendy glanced up. What a perfect end to the night. Her date was a bust. There was no conversation. No chemistry. She doubted if he could even get it up if she had gone home with him. Which he didn't offer. She couldn't beleive she didn't wear underwear for the night. Bastard was a waste of her time.

He seemed nice when they met a t the party. Tall, quiet but gentlemanly. She must have been pretty drunk. He wasn't tall. He wasn't quiet either. Oh no, he was absolutely silent. She would have wondered if he was a mute, but his staccato answers guaranteed otherwise. An he was certainly not gentlemanly. He spent the entire evening staring at her tits, and then made her pay the bill!

She shivered out of anger, frustration and cold. The wind eddied leaves around her ankles, and they scratched as they twisted against her skin. Mark was going to pick her up. Sweet, reliable Mark. But she'd opted to walk away from her lecherous date and have Mark pick her up out on the street. She wondered how long he'd be. It began to rain.

She ducked under a tree and hoped Mark would show up before the lightning moved in too. The drops fell thick and fast. She was well and truly soaked, cold and shivering, before headlights turned into the street.


Over to you guys. Do what you will.


Sometimes Saintly Nick said...

Please don't ask me to write on a Sunday, especially when I forgot it was the end of Day Light Savings Time and got up an hour early.

Hmmm. you could at least have gotten her out of her cloths before passing her on.

fingers said...

Sadly for Wendy, Mark had completely forgotten about their date and was sitting at home, warm and dry with a mushroom pizza and the Rugby World Cup semi-finals on...

JP said...

Mark pulled up, stopped the car, rolled down the window and called to Wendy. Sheepishly, she opened the door and slid onto the leather seat, hoping her wet clothes weren't going to ruin the upholstery. "Thank you for rescuing me" she said as she closed to door.

How many years had he known Wendy? Four? Five? He'd been attracted to her from the start but there always seemed to be someone else in Wendy's life. He was confused by her reaching out to him in her time of need. Did she ever think of him as more than just a friend? Did she ever think of him as a man? Did she every notice his desire for her?

When she entered the car he watched as her dress moved up her thighs as she swung her legs into the car. She clearly hoped to make a good impression tonight. Her dress was short and even before it was wet it clung tightly to her body. The water ran down her neck and between her breasts. Even with her mascara running, she was an attractive woman.

As they drove, she told him about her evening. Why are women drawn to jerks like that, he thought. He would treat her like a princess. He had always worshipped her from a distance. He wanted to show her how he would treat her. Would it be right to persue her in the vulnerable state she was now in?

Effortlessly Average said...

Not that it matters he thought. Women like her never go for men like me.

And he was right. Over the course of his life he'd desired many women like Wendy: independent, driven, shockingly beautiful, and completly lacking in any meaningful understanding of what's good for them.

Women like Wendy regarded him as "friend material." He was the kind of man to whom women like Wendy related their desires for other men. He was their safety net; the one they called when those other men let them down. Indeed the only category of man these women regarded as less potential mates was "gay friend."

Women like Wendy always wanted the bad boy type.

If she only knew who he really is.

Anonymous said...

Mushroom pizza, mmmmmm. Do I get to be the guy in this story? I'd rather be the bloke. This instance only.